


#0162611 Portraits

by kingcael



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, The Stranger - Freeform, canon-typical weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcael/pseuds/kingcael
Summary: Statement of Isaac Grey, regarding the changes in the perception of his portraits.Little mid S2 canon compliant extra episode with an original statement I couldn’t get out of my mind.Hints of JonMartin, especially on Martin’s part.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 9
Kudos: 66





	#0162611 Portraits

“#0161126 Statement of Isaac Grey, regarding the changes in the perception of his... portraits. Recorded direct from subject 26th November, 2016.

Statement begins.”

A silence, and an uncomfortable shuffling of cloth.

“If you’d like to begin, this tape won’t last all day.”

“Y-yes.” The man’s voice is deep, but trembling. “Do you… do you mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t permit any incendiaries in- oh. Well, if you must- just-“ The Archivist sighs. Another shuffling of cloth, and the sound of a lighter. A soft thunk. “Here. Martin will give me grief for using a mug as an ash tray but-“

“Alright.” Mr. Grey breathes out a sigh, and takes a long drag of his cigarette. He begins rummaging through his bag and speaks with his cigarette between his lips. “One other thing-“ 

“Your statement, Mr. Grey.”

“Yes, this is related.”

“What is it?”

“Let me… let me draw your portrait while I tell you what’s happening to me.”

“Uh… uh, why? I’m not-“

“I just need to see something and this will be the easiest way to show you.”

“Fine. If you must. Start at the beginning.”

The sound of a pencil scratching against paper accompanies the recording, along with the sounds of Mr. Grey occasionally taking a drag from his cigarette.

“It started about six months ago. Late February. I work as a teacher, an art teacher, mostly, though sometimes I do pick up a Literature class, if we’re ever short-staffed or there’s a problem with scheduling. Teaching hasn’t always made ends meet, especially after my wife and I moved into the bigger house she wanted. The house is nice, though, there’s lots of room for our Alex to play and his room is bigger now. His birthday is tomorrow, that’s part of the reason I’m here, I’m just- I’m scared- and-“

Mr. Grey clears his throat, and the sound of the pencil on paper slows for a moment.

“So, a side job I have is drawing portraits. Lots of babies, even though they’re all basically the same looking. I’ve gotten a name with a bunch of rich socialites and I can always expect a commission from them every time one of them gives birth. I feel kind of bad charging them as much as I do but I offered a random, rather exorbitant price the first time and they keep paying. Sometimes it's a little different, I’ll draw portraits for funerals. Three crows instead of four.” 

A wry laugh. 

“Like the poem. I’ve drawn so many smiles that don’t exist anymore. You would think that means my subject matter tends to be the very old, or the very young. There’s a surprising amount of grey area there, though. The last portrait I drew… properly... was a composite of several photos of a young woman who died rather suddenly from… brain cancer? I can’t remember exactly. Her mother had given me an envelope full of photos of her daughter, with the request of a traditional graphite, on B4 paper, with a two centimetre border. The usual for this sort of thing. I did the work, and when we presented the image to her husband, it brought him to tears to see a new image of his daughter. So, context wise, this is to indicate that I am… skilled enough in my rendering of likeness that what’s been happening is… anomalous to say the least.”

Another cigarette being lit. 

“The next job I received, I took the photos, another baby, really chubby this time, began drawing, normal stuff. I was excited for the payment, I needed to replace the drywall in the kitchen for… uh… unrelated reasons. But the email I got back from the client wasn’t full of the usual affirmations I was expecting, instead some confusion as to if I sent the wrong file. I double checked the last name on the back of the commission, Sean Fletcher, February 2016. I only had one pending commission, so there wasn’t really any way it should be wrong, but I took another photo and sent it again. The reply was instant, saying the same as before, that their Sean wasn’t nearly this chubby and also was I being insensitive, because ‘their baby wasn’t Chinese, so what are you doing, I thought you were a good artist’. I compared the photos they had given to me to the drawing on my kitchen table and I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Just to be sure, I took another photo, with the commission alongside the reference photos, and emailed it.”

Mr. Grey shuffles a moment, and a different sound of a blending tool joins the pencil scratching. 

“Oh… hold that position, the light is hitting your nose just right. Perfect. Thank you. The client was not impressed, thought I was having a joke at her expense, and claimed that the reference photos looked absolutely nothing like what I had drawn. That struck me as odd, because obviously they were the same. During this exchange, my wife had come home, so I asked her to have a look, explaining the problem with the client. My wife agreed with the client, asking if I was trying to be funny. I have a notable lack of a sense of humour, but my wife often tries to confuse me, so I asked my son to look too, and he agreed with the both of them. I ended up returning the photos to the client, got a healthy amount of admonishment, and didn’t get paid. That… debacle did damage my reputation, so it was another few months until I got another one for a priest that passed away. My mother was one of his parishioners and suggested I draw the man’s portrait for his service, wreathed in flowers. Commissions like that usually go on an A2, which was a reasonably sizeable price too, and I needed the money.”

Another few seconds of scratching pencil.

“You have unique features, Mr. Sims. At least, I think you do. Your eyes, especially, they’re really-”

“Ah… please continue your statement, Mr. Grey.”

“I mean it… If you… if you really look like this… you’re quite striking.”

The Archivist blushes, and maybe you can hear it in his voice. “Your statement.”

“Yes… By this time, I had put the trouble of the last commission out of my mind, and had even done a few studies in class with the students that seemed to be fine. I figured my previous client and my wife had just been gaslighting me or something, so I took the reference photos of the priest, with a downpayment of half the commission cost, which I gave directly to my wife so she wouldn’t- well. The commission was going smoothly, I started with the flowers, morning glories, daisies, aster, and carnations. I was halfway done the priest when my wife looked over my shoulder and asked what I was doing. I was confused, sketching out the shape of a large birthmark on the priest’s forehead. She brandished the reference photo at me, declaring I must have lost my touch, and maybe I needed to get my eyes checked. I was confused again, looking from the photo to my drawing quickly. I had been paranoid about getting something wrong again since the last one so I’d even reverted back to the art school percentage of looking at the subject 80% of the time and the drawing 20%. I’m doing that now too, I hope you don’t mind. Do you often press your lips together like that? Ah. I’m sorry. They’re just a nice shape so…”

Mr. Grey clears his throat. The pencil sounds continue.

“The man I drew was not the priest. I’m sure you could have guessed that. My mother was furious. When I delivered the finished commission, the way everyone’s faces fell when it was unwrapped was enough for me to know it happened again. I had to return all the money from the downpayment, and I even compensated them to get a large photo print of the priest for the service. After that, I tried drawing my wife a few times, something I’ve done a million times. I know every curve of her face, the way her chin juts forward and how her nostrils aren’t the same size. Little details are really what makes a person a person. Everyone has the same basic setup, right? Two eyes, nose, mouth, ears. But it’s the variations, the combinations that make those things a person. So it’s my job to notice the differences, and put them together properly. When I drew my wife this time, it made her angry. Demanding if I had some new girlfriend, since I drew those lines so lovingly, like how I used to draw her, and why didn’t I do that anymore, and- ahem, well, needless to say, I thought I was losing my mind. I think I still am… hmm…”

Mr. Grey stubs out his cigarette, but doesn’t light another, instead, he moves his chair closer to the desk. 

“I came to your organization because nothing online seemed to help me with what I was experiencing. Face blindness seemed close, but it was only when I was drawing, and I could remember everyone’s faces, I knew who people were, I could match a face to a name, it’s just that everyone seemed to disagree when I drew them. There was a brief mention of something similar on an old forum, ten pages into the search results, and the only advice was to come to the Magnus Institute. It’s… it’s my Alex’s birthday tomorrow. I… I have a scrapbook I’ve been working on since he was born. Every year I draw him, this year will be the sixth one. I’m… I’m scared that… that what I draw will be wrong. That my son, my boy, that he looks different, and what I see, what I think of when I picture him… is wrong. I looked at my drawings from before… and… and he doesn’t look like… I’m not-“

The sounds of the pencil scratching become agitated, then slow. 

“I’m sorry. I fear I’ve made your background a little bit… harsh… A bit like a web, hm. I suppose what I’m here for is proof… or a reassurance? That I’m not- That something like this has happened before. If I know that someone else has- or something like this can even be possible-“

Mr. Grey stops drawing. 

“I love my son. I love my son more than anything, Mr. Sims. I don’t care if I can’t see him right, I’ll love him just the same. I just need to know.”

A shuffling, and the sound of a pad of paper slid across the desk. 

“Is this you?”

A long silence, and the Archivist moves the paper.

“Yes.”

Mr. Grey breathes out, and sits back heavily in his chair. 

“So… so you’re… you. I don’t… I don’t know if that makes me feel better or not.”

Before the Archivist can reply, there’s a knock on the door. 

“Whoops! Oh! Sorry, Jon, just got a cuppa for you, didn’t mean to interrupt!”

“Martin, please wait for a reply before barging in here next ti-“

“Oh my _gosh_ , what a beautiful portrait! You drew this? Have you ever thought about becoming a model, Jon, I thi-“

The Archivist is clearly embarrassed and speaks acidly.

“Yes, well, thank you for that, Martin. If that’s all-“

“Jon! Were you _smoking_ in here? That’s-“

“It wasn’t me! Mr. Grey became upset, and needed to smoke so-“

Mr. Grey stands up, and gathers his things. 

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Grey, is that- is there anything else to add to your statement?”

“No, I’m… it’s nice to talk about it to someone who… who listens. You have… a beautiful face, Mr. Sims. It’s reassuring to be sure of that.”

The Archivist stammers something as Mr. Grey leaves. Martin picks up the paper and makes a thoughtful sound as the Archivist dithers around.

“Um… Jon?”

“What, Martin?”

“Is this portrait, um, part of the file?”

“I- I suppose it must be. Label it as supplementary evidence, that might contradict the whole statement. Mr. Grey might just be on the verge of a mental breakdown, though his technical skills can’t be contested I suppose.”

“Definitely not, this looks exactly like you, even the way you press your lips together and the little line between your eyebrows.”

The Archivist exhales a breath out his nose.

“Yeah! Just like that!”

  
  
  
  



End file.
